Morning Glory
by theanonymoustardis
Summary: When four different kids register for a robotics competition, they have no idea what they're in for.
1. Ellis

Ellis

It's one of those weird days. The ones where it's sort of hot, but not, and nearing mild, but still too warm. One of those days where the humidity has gotten to the point where it's uncomfortable, but not so far where it feels like you're walking through a steamy shower. It's one of those days where there are some clouds, but not enough to constitute a cloudy day, because that little patch of sunshine peeking out makes it what some creative meteorologist decided to call "partly cloudy". It was a day where it's somewhat quiet, but there's a slight buzzing and humming from cars whizzing by below.

In short, it's a day just waiting for something to happen to it, just like every other day in the city of Seattle. A normal day, a day like any other…

...except for the giant banners and signs tacked up around the city, the giant parade of cars waiting to cross the city border, and the tiny specks of people running around in a frenzy below my apartment window.

Yep, a typical day.

I sigh and retract my head from the window, massaging my neck back into its original position. The little ant-sized people running around 15 floors below me are still hurrying about, but this time with enormous packages in their arms. I know what those packages contain, I know who those people are, and I know that I probably should be down there by now. I would have been with them, but of course, I forgot to title my project. _I am extremely intelligent_ , I think to myself.

Spinning around in my chair, I arbitrarily pull wires around, out of sockets, and aside until I locate the chip insert. Yanking open my desk drawer, I shove pens, highlighters, paper clips, and sticky notes out of the way (or on the ground) until I find my tiny blue and green chip labeled "Project". I jam the chip into its designated space, reopening up a paper cut as I do so. The screen of my laptop lights up and begins to spin a holographic projection as I rummage around in my (now empty) desk for a bandage. Finally, it's done loading, and I release a breath that I haven't realized I've been holding as the projection finally materializes. Every piece is neatly labeled and depicted, and I had been as meticulous as possible when creating the 3-dimensional diagram. Every blank has been filled.

Oh, except for that glaring blank space at the top with the flashing cursor. And when I think that it couldn't get any worse, I hear my mother yell, "Ellis, get down here right now!" Great. Instead of 5 minutes, I officially have none. Zip, zero, nada. Well, I could stall, but you do NOT want to get on my mother's bad side.

In the depths of desperation, I attempt to bang my head against the screen, but then I realize it's a holograph, and I end up dizzy from hitting the wall. Oops. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to calm down, while frantically searching the room for inspiration until my eyes land on the window planter. It's bursting with morning glories in shades of purple, red, blue, pink, and a bunch of other colors I can't name.

The flowers are beautiful, spraying out colors that illuminate the dreary skyline of skyscrapers and factories. Of course, they are my mother's, because under my care, they would have died a long time ago. I remember when I was younger, when there were parks, when green actually existed, my mother owned a greenhouse, and I would play in the dirt, mucking up plants as my mother hastily tried to replant them.

My mother's voice slices through the daydream, shredding it to ribbons as she yells my name. "Ellis Hoffman!" I am jerked back to the present, under an even tighter time crunch.

Out of ideas, and out of time, I quickly type "Morning Glory" into the title box and hit the save button just as my mother yells, "Ellis June Hoffman, did you hear me? Get yourself down here!" I quickly eject the chip, and then realize I'm still wearing pajamas. I had worried so much that I had forgotten to do anything, including eating breakfast.

Cursing, I run into the bathroom and strap on my watch. _You have 60 seconds_ , I told myself. I throw on a loose gray V-neck shirt and blue jeans, accompanied by short white socks. 39 seconds. I dash downstairs, the chip clutched in my hand, and swing my bag over my shoulder, shoving a water bottle, a bagel, and a banana in it along with the chip. 24 seconds. I snatch up my black jacket and glasses, putting one on my face and the other in my bag before realizing that I have my jacket covering my eyes. I quickly switch them around. 13 seconds. I grab my shoes from the shoe rack and put them on, not bothering to tie the laces. 8 seconds. I run out the front door as I rummage in my bag for my house keys. 5 seconds. I slam the door shut with a bang and lock it. 3 seconds. I run in the car and shut the door. O seconds.

It's perfect timing. The moment the passenger door's lock clicks, the car speeds off onto the street. I roll up the ends of my jeans and tie my shoes as my mother berates me for being so slow. I don't care. I finished my project, and right now, nothing else matters except that.

As the car maneuvers itself through the traffic, I can feel the earlier rush of adrenaline dying down. I peel the banana, stripping its long yellow covering off as I watch the huddles of people meandering through the streets of Seattle converge at one place: the Hall of Freedom. The hall's golden dome reflects the few rays of sunlight that pierce the smog, sending off sparks of light that burn my eyes.

Once the flames in my eyes are quenched and I am able to see clearly, I return my gaze to the people walking along the street, some of them running in their haste to get to the Hall's grand auditorium. I know why, for I am going where they are going, and I, like every one of them, know the size of what is at stake. There is a sizeable amount to possibly gain, but also an immense amount to possibly lose.

Today is the judgement of the 43rd Annual Robotics Competition of the American Federation, and I am here to win.


	2. Peter

Peter

 _Tap. Tap. Tap._

"Peter, quit tapping your foot. It gives the impression of a street vagabond."

 _Tap._

"Peter, you're a hopeless case. Do you want people to think you're a vagrant?"

I sigh and straighten up, shifting my weight equally onto both feet. I feel the extreme urge to glare and snap at my mother, but then she'd go on a rampage about how I am an ungrateful brat and a disgrace and blah, blah, blah…

My father seems to sense the agitation coming off of me in waves. "Peter, she doesn't really mean it," he whispers to me. "It's just that she wants you to have a good future. She may be a little harsh, but… just remember who you are, okay?"

I nod, but on the inside I give a snort. _Yeah, right. Remember who I am._ _That can't be hard_ , I think to myself. _I am Peter Matthew Rockwell, son of President George Rockwell, leader of the American Federation and I am sole heir to Mary Helena Christina Rockwell, née Cornell, daughter of trillionaire Robert Cornell._ Yep, easy as pie.

Avoiding my parents' watchful gazes, I scan the crowd for familiar faces. There are kids here from every state, every county, every city, and every town in the Federation. I'm not looking for friends; my parents don't let me associate with kids whose parents are beneath their rank. And besides, I don't have time for that kind of stuff. I'm just looking for kids who attend my school, kids who think I don't know who they are. Standing in line is boring, and even the president's kid has to wait.

A glint catches my eye and I jerk my head back. The glint is coming from Ellis Hoffman's glasses. She's standing there, conversing with her mother in French. My parents hold them in distaste, purely because Ellis's mother, Amélie, isn't from the Federation. I don't really care for my parent's ways of thinking and I wouldn't if she hadn't beaten me in final exams.

She had come out with a perfect score, and I, who had always been second to none, lost by one point. I still remember the kids jeering at me, but raising Ellis up and parading her around like a hero.

I shake my head and come out of my trance, the taunts still ringing in my ears. I can almost hear my mother's voice echoing in my head. _There is no purpose in dwelling on the past. What matters is the present_. I'm almost at the front of the line, and I fish my chip out of my trouser pocket, my ID chip from the other. As I wait, I continue to glance around the courtyard at the medley of faces, taking care to avoid Ellis's face. Suddenly, someone crashes into me, and the two chips I had clenched in my hand go flying. They soar up into the sky, arcing up into the blue into who knows where. The boy mutters an apology and runs away before I can catch a glimpse of his face.

"Hey!" I shout. "You there!" But my voice is lost in the crowd, and besides, it would be a waste of time to wander through the crowd and lose my spot in line.

Greatly disgruntled, I smooth down my black blazer, which that kid had rumpled and wrinkled. The wrinkle won't come out, and I frown. I'd have to remind my maid to iron it. For now, I'll make do. I straighten my silk tie. I feel ready. Then I remember that I'm missing my chips and panic. There are only 4 people left in front of me, and who knows if they're a family.

I'm ready to charge out and scour every inch of the grass lawn until someone taps my shoulder. I glance upward, irritated and ready to shout all kinds of things, until I realize it's Ellis. "What do you want?" I say. I know I sound arrogant, but I need to teach Ellis a lesson.

She opens her palm and inside are my two missing chips. I snatch them up and begin to dance with joy. Ellis gives a slight grin. "You're welcome," she says, in a tone equally arrogant to mine. She saunters off toward her mother, her black hair swishing in waves behind her.

Right away, my parents are on me. "You know better than that," my mother scolds. "You know we don't like you associating with people like her." She spits out the word "her" as if it's as bitter as poison.

My father gives me a lecture along the same lines. "You don't know how foul she and other people like her can be." He offers me some hand sanitizer from the bottle in his breast pocket. I accept some and smear it on my hands, taking care to have it visible to Ellis. I don't look at her, however.

Then, I'm suddenly at the front of the line. The woman bows to my family and scans my ID card, even though she already knows who I am. She's my father's chief adviser, after all. "Welcome, Mr. Rockwell," she says, addressing me. "Please drop your entry into the bin over there." She gestures.

I walk over and drop my chip in, letting it sink into the mountain of chips. Isend one last prayer up, asking for the blessing of Nike, of Victoria, and of victory and all her ethereal forms.

Once my parents are scanned and confirmed as legal citizens (even though everyone knows that there is no need to undergo such a process), the three of us pass by and are immediately accosted by a guard who bows to us. "Welcome to the 43rd Annual Robotics Competition of the American Federation. We wish you the best of luck in the competition and we hope you enjoy your time here."

 _Oh, I will_ , I think to myself. _After I win, of course._

But as I pass the turnstiles, my hands are trembling.


End file.
